Secrets of Inish
by Sekhmet88
Summary: Two Irish girls, captives of the Woads, released by day as guards for Guinevere, bound in chains by night. How will their existence change the Knight's fate?
1. Chapter 1: Taken

**A/N: I do not own anything from King Arthur, etc. etc. Except for the characters I create, etc. You guys know the drill, right? Not mine, unfortunately, not mine. So please don't sue! **

_Chapter 1: Taken_

Two little girls raced across the rich, green land. Clasping hands, they rolled and tumbled down the hill, laughing in a whiling dervish of skirts and braids. As they stood, they beheld a small town; it's brown, circular huts cropping up against the cliffs and rocks that led to the fierce ever-changing sea. The gulls cast their haunting cry across the skies, calling for their loves lost to the ocean's depths. Home.

Entering the brown, wooden meeting hall, the girls separated, looking for their respective fathers. The hall was one long room, with two stairs on each of far sides, leading up to a balcony for matter of a more private nature. Glancing about the room, the russet haired, green eyed girl jumped when she heard her father's usually quiet, lilting voice raised in anger.

"You fight for freedom, yet you come to take our own?"

Beckoning to the honey haired girl with sea colored eyes across the hall, she slowly and silently crept up the old wooden stairs as an unintelligible guttural voice murmured his response.

The final stair creaked, and the two eight-year olds hung their heads in shame at being caught. Their father's looked up sharply, eyes widening at the sight of their daughters standing windblown and solemn in the doorway. The third man slowly turned around. He was draped in heavy furs, his face already showing the lines that connoted wisdom. His brown hair and beard were a wild tangle about his face, strange dark blue markings showing through. Strangest of all, however, was his skin; it was tinged a strange, silverfish blue.

He crossed the small balcony and knelt before them. Staring into their eyes, he nodded and said

"Yes. These girls will do nicely."

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The blonde girl watched her mother turn from the window with angry tears in her eyes. The russet haired girl took her by the hand and they began to descend onto the beaches.

"Well," the red-head said as they plodded along hand in hand, "it will be a bonny adventure, that's for sure."

Smiling slight at this, the blonde's spirits lifted slightly until they reached the little boat where their fathers and the strange man waited. She went to her father, who knelt before her. He pressed something into her closed hand and kissed it. Uncurling her fingers, they revealed a shiny conch shell no bigger than her smallest finger. Placing it to her ear, she smiled as she heard the crash of the sea.

"Never forget, lass. You belong to the sea. Eyes like yours . . . the sea claimed us as its kin long ago. Keep a piece of it with you and you'll be safe." He said, tears in his eyes.

The red haired girl hugged her father long and hard. She attempted to smile bravely at him and he chuckled softly as he ruffled her hair. She swatted his hands away as he poked at her gently.

"Da, stop it!"

"Ah, fine then, ya little motherless beggar. Ya know I love ya." He replied with a fond smile, before picking her up, knowing that he held his daughter in his arms for the last time.

With hardened faces, the two fathers placed their brightest jewels into the small boat.

"Your names?" the strange man asked.

"Isolde" the blonde girl replied softly, her sea eyes never leaving his.

"Elaine" the titian haired girl replied as she opened her hand to see her father's last gift, a stone carved four-leaf clover pendant on a chain.

As the boat began to float away to lands unknown, the girls watched their fathers grow small, yet still straight and proud, on the shore. Isolde's father's voice carried across the wind to them,

"You're taking two of Ireland's finest daughters away with you to Britain. Never forget her sacrifice, Merlin."


	2. Chapter 2: Voice in the Dark

**A/N: Disclaimer, blah blah blah. It's not mine, we all know this! Oh, and just to let everybody know, this plot hit me while I am heading into exam week, so if updates are scattered a bit, I'm sorry, but I have to get into college! Oh, and the song is "She Moved Thru' the Fair" it's not mine, and if you want to hear the voice I had in mind, find the Celtic Women version of it. **

_Chapter 2: Voice in the Dark_

_12 years later_

Lancelot stood by the tree, putting down his supplies and extra weapons around his makeshift room. Looking up, he saw the carriage. The thin veils blew in the wind, and were translucent thanks to the candles glowing on the inside. The girl woad was being bathed by the Roman wife. He immediately looked down, knowing that this scene was not something that he should be witness to.

'I should not look. Arthur is attracted to her. She is a woad! Well, I suppose one look won't hurt anyone.'

Just as Lancelot began to lift his eyes, a clear voice came out of the dark.

_"My young love said to me, my mother won't mind"_

Attention diverted, he took a small step toward the sound.

_"And my father won't slight you, for you're lack of kind"_

He stepped into the wilderness wild, slightly lowered, a dark panther stalking his prey.

_"Then she stepped away from me, and this she did say:_

_It will not be long, love, till our wedding day"_

He paused to listen to the lilting song. The singer, whoever she was, was completely at ease with her song, let her voice ripple and glide over several notes. The tune was haunting, like nothing he had ever heard before. The land seemed to come awake with it. The rustling trees and blowing wind seemed merely instruments to the strange melody. Even the snow seemed to fall in time with her.

_"She stepped away from me, and she moved thru' the fair,_

_And fondly I watched her, move here and move there._

He took another step, seeing a small fire in the distance

_"And she made her way homeward with one star awake_

_As the swan in the evening moves over the lake."_

Something made him begin to run softly, swirls of snow moving with him as he dodged the trees.

_"Last she came to me, she came softly in,_

_So softly she came, that her feet made no din,_

He came upon a clearing, with one large tree in the middle. Something marred the smooth surface of the bark. Peering closer, he saw chains spanning the middle. He moved to step into the fire lit clearing,

"Lancelot!"

His head darted up, seeing Galahad a few paces behind him.

"Where are you going?"

_And she laid her hand on me, and this she did say:_

_It will not be long love, till our wedding day"_

He looked back at the now dark forest. The song had stopped, the strange spell broken.

"Nowhere," he said, clapping his younger brother on the shoulder, "now let's go by the fire and get something to eat."


	3. Chapter 3: Devil Ghosts

**A/N: disclaimer, etc.**

**Morwen12: Thanks, I hope you enjoy the story!**

**KnightMaiden: Who'll have to wait and see who gets together! wink**

**Wild-vixen: when I saw a review from you, I squealed, seriously. Your story is one of my favorites, and I can't wait for you to update again! I have no idea where the idea came from, it just popped into my head late at night after seeing "Tristan and Isolde"**

**CelticRoseoftheLake: Thanks! I hope you like it!**

_Chapter 3: Devil Ghosts_

Isolde and Elaine hid beneath the brush looking over a frozen lake. Eight men and one woman stood in a line against two hundred Saxon men.

"And just _how_ are we supposed to protect Guinevere if she gets herself kidnapped and sold at _night_ when we can't get to her?" Elaine complained bitterly

"Merlin knows it was not our fault, which is why we are protecting her _now_, while we can." Isolde said calmly, brushing tawny strands away from her eyes.

The Saxons drew closer to the small line, growling menacingly with each step. Elaine began to fidget quietly, twirling her green fletched arrow in her fingers. With a tremendous yell, a large man broke free from the line, swinging his axe forcefully into the ice. Without thinking, Isolde's bow was up and shooting Saxons to protect him, Elaine's quickly following.

They watched the man walk away from the ice, leaving a mass of Saxon ice bergs behind him. Elaine quickly aimed her bow and let an arrow sing through the air before burying itself in the ice. Isolde quickly grabbed her and flattened the both of them against the rock.

"Are you insane? You've revealed our position!" Isolde hissed.

"I just thought Guin might like to know that her trusty bodyguards are keeping their eyes on things."

Back on the ice, the knights looked bewilderedly at the strange green arrow. Guinevere smiled slightly before turning and walking carefully off the ice. The knights followed slowly, Tristan scanning the area, until only Dagonet remained.

"Perhaps your Devil Ghosts aren't as devilish as you thought, eh Dag?" Bors yelled back.

Glancing in the direction from whence the arrow came, Dagonet pulled it out of the ice before following his comrades home.

Creeping out of the brush, the girls followed until they came back to the Woad camp. Walking silently through the camp, they ignored the staring of some of the men from camp. They had lived with the Woads for twelve years, but it seemed like the men would never get used to the Irish girls. One man, who clearly felt very hostile toward them, with long hair and a circular sun tattoo on his forehead, came toward them.

"Merlin wants to see you, slaves. You had better behave yourselves."

Irritated, Elaine moved toward him, but a stilling hand on her arm from Isolde stopped her. Glaring at her friend, Elaine huffed quietly before rolling her eyes and continuing toward Merlin's circle. As they exited the clearing, Isolde turned and threw something toward the man, no seated with his back to a tree. He froze like a deer in the hunter's path when he saw a knife spinning toward him before embedding itself in the tree trunk an inch from his head. Smirking, Elaine turned to Isolde,

"You missed."

Standing before Merlin, Isolde observed the man that had taken them from their land and fathers so many years ago. A bit of gray laced the brown hair, but other than that, he remained the same as the day their boat left the shores of Eire.

"The Saxon have come." He said, "prepare yourself to fight at dawn. You know to watch over Guinevere, but ." he paused, "try to look after the Knights as well."

"But Merlin," Elaine interrupted, "the Knights won't fight."

"Just watch over them."

Later that evening, the girls prepared for the approaching battle. Elaine sat fletching arrows and sharpening their swords with her back to Isolde, who was working an old bone comb through Elaine's hair.

"What do you think is going to happen?" Elaine said, breaking the silence.

"We'll fight." Isolde said simply.

"Hmm, I hadn't figured that out yet. I mean, afterwards. What will happen to us?"

"I don't know. What do you want to happen?"

Elaine was silent and still, contemplating for a moment before beginning to put away her whetstone and fletching materials.

"I had never really thought about it, I suppose. Go home to Ireland maybe. Live here. What about you?"

"I'd like to see the sea again." Isolde said quietly, as she recalled the waves crashing upon the rocks, the gulls screaming.

"We'll go together. You, me, and Guinevere. It'll be a holiday!" Elaine said, joking slightly.

"That'd be nice." Isolde murmured.

"Whatever happens, we'll go together. . . . right?" Elaine said, looking over her shoulder as Isolde plaited her hair.

"Of course," Isolde replied as she turned around and gestured at Elaine to reciprocate, "Somebody has to look after you."

As the moon rose in the evening sky, the girls sighed and stood. Three men walked toward them with chains in their hands.

"Isn't it nice to know that no matter how well-behaved we are, or how close we are to Guin, we are still slaves at night?" Elaine comment dryly.

Listening to her chains clink against the tree, Isolde only gripped her conch necklace tighter before drifting to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4: Battle Axe

**A/N: Disclaimer, etc.**

_Chapter 4: Battle Axe_

Elaine grunted as she twisted and pulled her sword out of the Saxon, feeling his life-blood spray upon her as she pushed him aside. Glancing up, she surveyed the scene around her.

Saxons, Woads, Britons, Sarmatians, Roman. All fought for the land she stood upon. She could hear the screams of those that lay dying at her feet, the thick grass stained red with blood. She turned to look for Guinevere, who had run off what felt like a few minutes ago.

'Could that girl not stay in one place!' she thought exasperatedly.

Her eyes locked upon the blue and brunette figure she had grown tall with. A tall, dark knight stood protectively in front of her, hunched over, slightly out of breath. Directly in front of Elaine stood a bald man in heavy furs. She gasped when she saw the heavy crossbow aimed directly at the Knight's heart. Quickly choking up on her sword, she crept up behind the Saxon and thrust it through his stomach. Sliding the sharp metal to the side, she effectively severed his intestinal tract.

'If he survives after that, he deserves to live.' She decided.

As the Saxon fell to the side, she saw the dark knight with the bolt in his shoulder.

Lancelot stood, staring dazedly at the figure across the battlefield. Long hair, the color of fire, blew in curls about her face. Her body was lithe and curved, her skin glowed through the blood, a rich peach and cream. She looked like a warrior queen of old in her battle uniform and naked, bloody sword. As he fell to his knees, the field swimming before him, he heard again the haunting voice in the woods.

"_And she laid her hand on me, and this she did say:_

_It will not be long, love. Till our wedding day."_

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Isolde grinned as the Saxon dropped with the satisfying thud that signifies victory. A hawk's cry startled her, causing her to look up and watch its flight. Following its path, she saw the blond leader of the Saxons about to deliver a severely weakening stroke to the Knight's scout. Remembering the quiet knight's ferocity in battle, she moved forward to protect from outside sources. As she drew closer, she saw his weakened and tired face. Without knowing what force motivated her, she drew her green-fletched arrow and notched it in her bow. It flew straight and true through the battle-laden air, before passing cleanly through the Saxon's sword wrist. He dropped his sword, swirling around to find his assailant. Unable to find the man who crippled him, he picked up the sword with his left hand.

Frantically, Isolde searched the battlefield. She knew she could not defeat this foe. Her eyes lit upon the knight's Commander.

"Arthur!" she cried, before gesturing with her bow.

He made his way toward the fray as she let another arrow fly, taking off the fleshy flap of the Saxon's ear. He spun about again, this time confronted with the cold, gray eyes of Artorius Castus.

Tristan was vaguely aware of someone dragging him away from the battle and laying him against some hard surface. Blonde hair and strangely colored eyes drifted above him.

"You're safe," a strangely accented voice said, "you're safe."

He tried to ask her where she was from, but she shushed him.

"Never mind that, now. Rest awhile."

His eyes closed as he succumbed to exhaustion.

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Elaine and Isolde strolled arm and arm through puddles of blood and severed body parts.

"Well, that was a bonny adventure, that's for sure." Elaine said.

The two girls laughed over the well-worn phrase as they continued across the field. Finally, they came across Guinevere standing next to Arthur and the Knights.

Upon seeing the two Irish girls, Guinevere screamed and sprinted toward them. The three met halfway and fell to the ground in a tangle of arms, legs, and blue paint. The knights looked on in shock as their pre-conceived notions of Woads as serious, trained, ruthless, emotion-devoid demons crumbled into this portrait of three friends reuniting.

Arthur cleared his throat and the women looked up as if surprised that they had company.

"We would like to visit our comrades in the infirmary, would you like to stay in the fort?" he inquired politely, much to Galahad's dismay.

"Well, it is customary to have a celebration after battle." Guinevere said quietly to Arthur.

"Well, You could have it in the wall, as long as you can swear to my people's safety."

"We will have it in the wall, as long as you can swear to mine."

"Agreed."

Elaine grinned up at Isolde and Guinevere, who smirked in turn. A celebration night. One of the few nights they were allowed out past the rising of the moon.

Isolde glanced at the Sarmatians, and thought of their two comrades currently being bandaged in the infirmary.

'Tonight is going to be interesting.' She thought to herself.

"Come on, you old battle axe!" Elaine called, "Everything is going to be fine!"

Isolde hooked arms with Guinevere and Isolde, and the three laughed as they considered the strangeness of their situation.

A woad princess and two Irish slaves, were willingly going into enemy territory. They were going into a Roman fort with men they had fought for twelve long years.


	5. Chapter 5: Smitten

**A/N: Well, exams are over, and I had a nice little weekend of skiing with my friends. Since I don't ski, and just hung out at the house all day, I had time to brainstorm and write! So here we go!**

_Chapter 5: Smitten_

The tavern had been transformed, decked in flowers and greenery. The heavy tattoos of drums blended with the fiddle as it sang its stories to the sky. Raucous laughter and cheers foretold the amusement that awaited the seven knights standing just outside the doors.

Scanning the crowd of strangers, Arthur's eyes were drawn to Guinevere, who stood laughing hysterically at a woman's joke. Her eyes lit upon Arthur and she excused herself from the crowd, making her way over to him, smiling gaily all the while. Giving him a kiss on the cheek, she smiled brightly and beckoned the Knight's in.

Keeping to the shadows, Tristan snatched up an apple and surveyed the surrounding. Old women stood chatting as the young dancing in the cleared areas, their war paint still on. A flash of gold drew his hawk-like eyes to a young woman helping Vanora pass the ale around. Long golden hair curled about small ears, over slender shoulders and pooled about her tiny waist. Ivory skin winked at him, peeking out beneath the cuffs and curved neckline of her blue dress.

She turned to refill her pitcher when she stopped sharply, her blue-green eyes locking with his brown ones. The seas observed the earth calmly and coolly, and Tristan began to lose himself in her haze. She smiled softly and continued on her way. As Tristan moved to the knight's table, an apple rolled softly away, having lain forgotten at his feet.

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Lancelot smiled as he observed the veritable feast of female flesh before him. Seating himself at the knight's table, she smiled at the blonde who handed him his ale. She shook her head at him softly before moving on to Gawain. Then, a mane of auburn curls flashed by Lancelot, a sassy laugh exploding through the air. A dervish of green fabric, red hair, and peachy skin.

"Isolde! Elaine!" Guinevere called.

Tristan's eyes widened as his and Lancelot's gaze followed the two girls as they ran and hugged Guinevere. The red head talked animatedly with Guinevere, as the blonde laughed, interjected occasionally with comments that sent the others rolling with laughter.

The close bond between the three girls was tangible. The sisterhood between them, forged from battles, blood, and growing up together, closely mirrored the knight's brotherhood. The redhead squeezed Guinevere's hand before grabbing the blonde's hand and dragging her to the musicians. After a few whispers and a kiss on the cheek, a lively tune picked up. Guinevere cheered, clapping her hands as the red haired girl pulled the blonde into the middle of the floor with her.

"Who are your friends?" Arthur asked.

"Isolde and Elaine? They're my best friends, and body guards, actually. They're Irish." She made a derisive noise in her throat. "The one thing my father's done that I disagree with."

Lancelot watched the twirling figure as she leapt and swirled through the air, crimson curls playing about her face, a wicked smile on her lips.

"That's Elaine." Guinevere said in his ear, before whispering the name "Isolde" to Tristan, startling him for his intent gaze.

Pushing through the crowd, Guinevere joined hands with them, and spun them around, laughing. As Elaine danced by, Guinevere whispered in her ear. Turning her head quickly, she slowed to a stop, staring at Lancelot questioningly.

The other knights chuckled at the soon-to-be former womanizer's mesmerized gaze, and laughed outright when she winked saucily and ran gracefully to a table and leapt atop it.

Clearing her throat, she gestured to the musicians. A hush fell over the Woads, and Guinevere moved back to sit on the bench with her legs slung across Arthur's lap.

_I know my Love, by his way of walking_

_And I know my Love by his way of talking_

_And I know my Love, dressed in a suite of blue_

_And if my Love leaves me, what will I do?_

_And still she cried, "I love him the best,_

_And a troubled mind, sure can know no rest"_

_And still she cried, "Bonny boys are few,_

_And if my Love leaves me, what will I do?"_

_There is a dance house in Maradyke,_

_And there my true Love goes every night,_

_He takes a strange girl upon his knee,_

_Well, now don't you think that that vexes me?_

_And still she cried, "I love him the best,_

_And a troubled mind, sure can know no rest"_

_And still she cried, "Bonny boys are few,_

_And if my Love leaves me, what will I do?"_

"What did you disagree with?" Dagonet asked quietly.

"What?" Guinevere said, puzzled.

"Before, you said you disagreed with something your father did." Galahad chimed in. She scowled in recollection, before replying quietly.

"He took them from their homes at eight years old, and they've been killing for a cause not their own ever since. The man whose life has been for freedom, keeps slaves as bodyguards for his daughter. They are kept in chains at night. Chains."

_I know my Love is an arrant rover,_

_I know he'll wander the wide world over_

_In foreign parts he may chance to stray_

_Where all the girls are so bright and gay_

_And still she cried, "I love him the best,_

_And a troubled mind, sure can know no rest"_

_And still she cried, "Bonny boys are few,_

_And if my Love leaves me, what will I do?"_

Applause sounded through the taverns as Elaine blushed rosy-red and bowed slightly, before blending back into the crowd.

"They understand you better than anyone, and they refused to fight you in battle."

The knights stared at the two girls who now stood by the bar in wonder.

"Would you care to meet them properly?" she asked teasingly.

"ISOLDE! ELAINE!"

The girls jumped slightly, before walking over to their table.

"You screeched?" Elaine said dryly.

"I'd like you to meet the knights. You've already met Arthur."

He nodded to them, encumbered by Guinevere's legs. The girls smirked and nodded back.

"Gawain" A tall, blonde, dread lock man with the look of a lion stood and raised his cup to them. They grinned in response.

"Dagonet" A tall bald man with a scarred yet kind face, nodded to them.

"Dagonet already knows us" Isolde said quietly, "Though not by name"

"Really?" Arthur said, "How could he know you?"

"We're his Inish." Isolde said simply.

"Devil Ghosts." Elaine added, smirking.

The knights' eyes widened as bits and pieces of puzzles fell into place after years of questioning. Dagonet smiled softly and nodded in thanks.

A young man with curly brown hair and a patchy excuse of a beard stood and said:

"I'm Galahad"

"And this," Guinevere finished, "is Lancelot" He stood quickly, but swayed at his injury. Elaine moved forward to support him, placing her arm around his back.

"I'm Elaine" She said, looking up at him.

- - - - - - - - - -

Tristan heard a soft step behind him.

"I knew that there were seven of you."

Turning sharply, Tristan saw the golden blonde standing in front of him. Breathing in, he could smell her soft scent of the woods, and a tang he couldn't place.

"I'm –"

"Isolde" he said softly, bowing to her slightly.

"I am Tristan."


	6. Chapter 6: Free at Last

**A/N: Hello Hello! Well, thank you to all my reviewers, I love you all to death! Let's get right to it, shall we? Oh, and I don't own anything, yadda yadda. The song is Allison Krauss from Cold Mountain, I don't own that either.**

_Chapter 6: Free at Last_

_2 months later_

Isolde and Elaine stood proudly behind Guinevere, looking battle-ready as their best friend gave her wedding vows. They cheered heartily with the other guests as fiery arrows sailed toward the sea, but inside they worried. Would they be taken from Guinevere? Their future was as uncertain as the sea, and they knew it well.

Holding his sword high above his head, Tristan watched the shiny metal glitter in the rare sunlight. Looking across the cliff, he saw Isolde conversing quietly with Elaine. He had grown somewhat accustomed to their presence, as they followed Guinevere everywhere. However, he could never forget the first night he met the Irish girls, the wild one and her quiet companion.

_Tristan, the knights, Arthur, and the girls sat at a table near the flickering fire. Isolde sat close by Tristan, observing the flames that hungrily devoured the wood beneath it. Elaine was laughing merrily at one of Gawain's jokes, but her eyes shifted slightly to watch Lancelot as he shook his head ruefully, chuckling quietly to himself._

_As they heard the crunch of footsteps approaching, the Knights stilled at the sound of a clinking chain. Its harsh sound chased the laughter from Elaine's face and stole the peace from Isolde's eyes. Guinevere stood and moved toward the girls, only to be blocked by another Woad._

_"No!" she cried as the Woads roughly grabbed Elaine and Isolde, hauling them to their feet sharply. Tankards of ale spilled to the ground as knees and elbows knocked against the splintery wood table. Elaine struggled fiercely, twisting her body this way and that like a fox in a trap. The knights stood simultaneously as she was struck across the face, Galahad and Lancelot reaching for their swords. Subdued, Elaine and Isolde submitted to the woad men, their hands chained. Tristan stared into the dark eyes of the woad men as they melted back into the forest, dragging Isolde and Elaine close behind._

_"They are free! They are free!" Guinevere yelled frantically, struggling and yelling until she was hoarse, before collapsing at the table with her head buried in her shoulders. The men resumed their seats, all joy forgotten, as Arthur rubbed her shoulders. Tristan recalled the words of Lancelot, words he wasn't supposed to hear._

_"There will always be a battlefield"_

Tristan would never forget the quietly haunted look in Isolde's eyes as she was dragged away from the fire, from him. They held no hope; only pain, and the confusing of an eight year old girl who knew not what she had done wrong.

Hours later, the wedding feast in full swing, the men came again. Guinevere drew herself up, straight and tall, looking down at Arthur, who nodded.

"My first act as Queen is to release my guardians, Isolde and Elaine of Eire. They shall never be chained again. This is my word, and it shall be done." She spoke with a calm authority, regality dripping from every inch of her body.

The men continued to approach, halting only when seven men stood menacingly.

"Her word is mine as well" Arthur growled.

Defeated, for now, the men slinked back into the shadows and fled the room.

Elaine pounced joyously on Guinevere as Isolde embraced her firmly. They chattered together happily before Elaine turned to Arthur, planted a smacking kiss on his cheek, sending the three women into gales of laughter at his blushing face. The knights joined in, filled with contentment to see others freed as they were.

"I have one condition," Guinevere told Isolde quietly, pulling her away from the others, "you much sing."

"Elaine is the singer, not me." Isolde said firmly.

"Please! Just this once!"

The hall hushed as the single moan of a fiddle filled the room, singing mournfully in the corner. A voice, lower and rougher than Elaine's, softly harmonized.

_You walk unscathed through arrow fire,_

_No ploughman's blade will cut thee down_

_No cutlass wound will mar thy face_

_And you will be my ain true love_

_And you will be my ain true love_

Isolde stepped softly toward the firelight, flames reflecting eerily off of her golden hair and creamy skin. She moved as if in a dream, her blue dress floating behind her. Elaine stood quietly behind, joining in softly as accompaniment.

_And as ye walk through death's dark veil_

_The saxon thunder can't prevail_

_And those who hunt thee down will fail_

_And you will be my ain true love_

_And you will be my ain true love_

_Asleep inside the quiver's mouth_

_The captain cries "here comes the rout"_

_They'll seek to find me north and south_

_But I've gone to find my ain true love_

The hall stands suspended in time as the foreign melody washed over them. With closed eyes, Isolde stood strong as her voice coated the low notes with texture, fiddle wailing.

_The field is cut and bleeds to red.  
The arrow shafts fly round my head,  
The infirmary man may count me dead,  
When I've gone to find my ain true love,  
I've gone to find my ain true love_

Later that night, she sat close by the fire. Turning to the approaching sound, she nodded to the scout as he folded his legs beneath him.

"I could never sit by the fire this late before." She said softly, her lilting voice flitting away into the darkness. She held her hands out, toasting them lightly, with a soft smile in the heat of the crackling fire.

As they sat in silence, she felt strangely comforted, and knew her long wait for freedom was ended. Lying on her side, she succumbed to sleep, not feeling the hand, feather soft, hesitantly reach out to curiously stroke her golden hair.

_And you will be my ain true love_


	7. Chapter 7: Tumultuous as the Seas

**A/N: Back again! Here we go. Disclaimer, etc. The song is Clannad's "I will find you" I don't own it, obviously.**

_Chapter 7: Tumultuous as the Seas_

1 month later

Isolde awoke to the sound of shattering pottery.

"You little HARPY!" Lancelot's gruff yells could be heard throughout the knight's wing.

"Get _out_! Who gave you the right to come into my room!"

Groaning softly, Isolde rolled out of bed and walked to her oak door, stretching before opening it to the scene in the corridor. Elaine stood, hands firmly planted on her hips with eyes blazing, glaring at Lancelot, who stood with rumpled curls and the opposite end of the hallway.

"_You _did, when I knocked and you said 'Come in!'"

"Well, I didn't know it was _you_!"

"You couldn't tell by the sultry sound of his voice?" Gawain asked, smirking from his doorway. His door slammed shut as pottery hurtled into it, shattering against the wood that, two seconds before, was his head.

Ever since their first meeting, Elaine and Lancelot could not manage to be in the same room for five minutes without arguing. It didn't quite matter the subject. Training, weapon choice, handing horses, the price of peas in Rome, everything was a competition. They would shout and scream and throw things at each other until one conceded defeat or, more likely, was so furious in rage that they couldn't respond. Twice they came to blows, only to be pulled apart by Tristan and Isolde, who threw them into the baths to cool down. This resulted in a water fight that increased in aggression until there was more water outside of the bath than in it, and the perpetrators were sent to opposite ends of the fort. No one could quite understand why they argued so; both were wonderful with everyone else.

Another bowl shattered (the fifth in two days) as Elaine began to scream Gaelic obscenities at Lancelot. Isolde sighed in pity for the fort potters. They had an incredibly difficult time keeping up with Elaine's temper. Looking over at Tristan's open door, she saw he smirk at her before closing his door.

Returning to watch the dispute, she saw Elaine throw up her hands and stomp back to her room.

"Lancelot! Stay _out_ of my _room_!" she screamed, before slamming the door shut.

Subtly, Dagonet withdrew two small sticks, one red and one black. Withdrawing his knife, he positioned it above the black stick and prepared to strike a notch into the wood.

"Well," Lancelot muttered as a cocky grin spread across his face, "she'll soon regret that remark."

Elaine's door flew open and a hairbrush hurdled out of the depths of the room. This time her aim was true; it connected solidly with Lancelot's head and knocking him down to the stone floor.

Dagonet sighed, moved his knife to the red stick and carved another notch in the already well-carved stick. Shaking her head, Isolde returned to her room and shut the door. Normally, Elaine had a large tolerance level, but there was something in Lancelot's very nature that sent Elaine over the edge.

That afternoon, a strange thundering could be heard approaching the wall. Its peculiar rhythm soon brought all of the occupants to the top of the embattlements.

Rows of men and women marched towards the gates, riding proud horses and pulling carriages. The thunder came from drums like pans, held in rows. A single flag was held in the wind, its banner billowing majestically.

"I do not know this flag" Arthur said, surprised.

"It is Irish" Isolde said quietly.

"Open the gate!" Arthur commanded, after regarding Isolde for a moment.

Elaine was the first to walk cautiously out of the gate, with Isolde, Guinevere, and the Knights soon following. Raising a hand to her eyes, she peered at the column as a lone man strode to the head. He was a bear of a man, with glinting auburn hair. Slowly, she lowered her hand.

"Da?" she whispered softly.

"DA!" she yelled, dashing forward.

Soon, all the knights could see was a fireball in a flurry of skirts racing across the land. The man quickened his pace and ran ahead of the crowd, reaching out to hold his daughter tight. He lifted her high above his head, swirling her about as their laughter rang across the field. Tossing her in the air, he hugged her fiercely before letting himself be pulled up to the fort.

Isolde smiled indulgently through the introductions before saying,

"Please Uncle, how is my father?"

Godric's smile dropped, and the Irish delegation grew somber.

"Isolde. Sweetling. There have been many battles since you left our shores. Clans were battling for power. A fortnight ago, our clan won against our greatest foe. You father . . . was lost in the fight. We've come so that you might perform the funerary rites."

The next morning, Isolde stood proud, her golden hair catching the newborn light. A soft rhythm began to pound. A few men began a soft chant. Beyond the cliffs, the ebb and flow of the sea added a haunting rush. A woman in a dark veil stood at the edge of the crowd.

Isolde's pale hand rose in the air, soft white fabric falling away from it. The woman in black began to sing.

_Hope is your survival_

Her leg slide around in a circle, her body pivoting as her arms rose and fell, her head tilting down, a golden curtain hiding her eyes.

_A captive path I lead_

To Tristan, Isolde's mourning dance was haunting and surreal. She was ethereal and otherworldly as her body twisted and turned, leaping through the air.

_No matter where you go,_

_I will find you._

_If it takes a long, long time._

As she fell to her knees, the women in the crowd began to rock back and forth. Isolde gathered the wild flowers, which were lain beside her in a pile of lavender, heather, and lupines.

_No matter where you go,_

_I will find you_

_If it takes a thousand years_

She spun, round and round. The men began to chant in Gaelic to the strange beat, louder and louder. The women began to cry, a keening wail that rocked back and forth with the sea. Isolde threw the flowers into the sea, the tides carrying them away to unknown lands. Again she fell to her knees, shoulders shaking. Elaine, in a similar white dress, looked on quietly as she rose again to complete the dance. As Isolde began to sashay left, her footing stumbled, her emotions getting the better of her.

Gliding forward, Elaine reached for Isolde's hand, joining in the dance.

_No matter where you go,_

_I will find you_

_In a place with no frontier._

Grief was written across their faces as they lunged in tandem with one another, arms pulling at something seen only by them. The song fell to a close, their movements slowing. Heads bowed, the girls left the keening crowd as the woman's voice rose over all else.

_No matter where you go,_

_I will find you._

Even as the moon rose, hours later, many could still be seen at the cliffs' face, keening and wailing wildly.

Isolde lay by the fire, propped against Tristan's legs. No one at the fort was sure how the dark, silent scout had befriended the Irish beauty. Through their quiet talks by the fire, they had become very close friends. Tristan found that he could tell her things, stories of his life. She would sit still and listen, her head cocked to one side, resting on her pulled up knees. Other nights, she would speak and he would listen. Yet most nights, neither would speak, but watch the flames in silence. That night was a silent night as tears fell down Isolde's face. Desperate to comfort her, but unsure how, Tristan's eyes searched the crowd until they locked with Elaine's, who stood vigilant over Isolde even while in the crowd. Nodding slightly, she moved quietly to Isolde, sitting near her. Bracing her back against the wood, she sang quietly.

Lancelot was heading to his rooms, passing Tristan and the Irish 'lasses' as he went. Nodding to his brother-knight, he was almost to the hallway when he heard it.

_Last night, she came to me,_

_She came softly in_

There it was again. The voice from the forest. Searching for it, he gasped when he found it to be Elaine, her eyes closed, lulling Isolde to sleep.

_So softly she came, that her feet made no din_

Tristan lifted Isolde, cradling her in his arms before passing Lancelot to place her gently in her room. Elaine stood, and as she passed him she stared directly into Lancelot's eyes.

_And she laid her hand on me_

_And this she did say_

His dark eyes following her form, he watched her until she was out of sight around the corner, her voice lilting back to him.

_It will not be long, love, till our wedding day_


	8. Chapter 8: The One I Left Behind

**A/N: Yes, I'm aware it's been forever since I've updated at all. I'm sorry! College has taken its toll, but I've decided to pick writing back up to keep me from going insane over my intense workload. I hope you all haven't given up on me, and that the story isn't too disrupted now!**

_Chapter 8: the One I've Left Behind_

Isolde could usually be found staring out the window at the sea, watching the colors swirl together and separate as they crashed against the rocks. It had been a month since she had returned to Ireland to pick up her father's mantle. The councils were a tedious business of orders and edicts not her own; they were those of odious men who aspired to be the genius behind "the Woman's" reign. Isolde felt free to let them, within reason. She only wanted to be at her window, gazing upon the sea as it changed.

"Why do you stare at the sea so?"

Isolde turned, startled from her reverie, to find Elaine staring at her intently. It seemed strange, Isolde thought, to see her in the heavy gowns of their mothers. This was never to be their lot in life.

"It . . . it makes me happy." Isolde replied carefully, turning away from her friend to gaze once more on the tide.

"Isolde . . . you must take care of yourself. I do not like seeing you this way. You do not sleep, you barely eat."

"I will do my duty," Isolde stated bitterly, "you need have no fear of that. Just leave me be and let me gaze upon my seas in peace."

Sadly, Elaine turned to leave. Once she had reached the rough, wooden doors she turned back to her friend.

"Do not let that golden diadem rest so heavily upon your head, coz. Tristan would not have wanted that."

_Tristan, _Isolde thought as the door closed behind Elaine. _Why on earth did Elaine have to bring him up? Tristan and I are nothing. He means nothing to me and I nothing to him. Nothing. _Her mind traveled back to the last time her eyes had beheld the silent and deadly scout.

_One Month Ago_

_The Knights stood together by the ocean, their cloaks whipping about in the harsh winds. Arthur and Guinevere had long since said their goodbyes; Arthur's reign was still too new to move far from Camelot. The first knight to lose his nerve was Galahad, Isolde recalled fondly. He bowed slightly to her, blushing lightly as he wished her 'the best winds for her journey'. Elaine wrapped her arms about him and laughed as he spun her about in the air. Elaine had always been fond of the young boys in the village and Galahad was no exception. However, Isolde was interested to note that it didn't stop Lancelot from bristling slightly. Jealously, perhaps? Next came Gawain, who stood before the two girls, saluted them with his sword playfully, before bounding over to Galahad and tackling him to the ground._

_Bors came shuffling up after, patting Isolde on the shoulder roughly before faking a punch to Elaine. Lancelot followed soon after, winking at Isolde and surprisingly, giving Elaine a kiss on the cheek. Poor Elaine stood in wonderment as Dagonet approached them._

_'You girls be good.' He said in his quiet way, 'I don't want to hear about any trouble.' He hugged the both of them tightly, and then stood with the other knights._

_Tristan just sat on his horse, conversing with his hawk. Every now and then, he would look up and lock eyes with Isolde, reproachful. It was clear what he thought of her "duty" to Ireland. They had argued for the first time the night before._

_"You have barely lived in Ireland. You hold no duty to them." Tristan said calmly._

_"They are my people! My father's people if not mine. I have an obligation!" Isolde said, attempting to make Tristan see reason, "I thought . . . I thought you would understand, what with . . ."_

_"My father served his time before me; it was always known that I would go. Your father left you; he abandoned you to the Woads. You hold no duty."_

_"My father did NOT abandon me! And it is indeed my duty and obligation!"_

_"Your obligation . . ." But Isolde would not see reason in Tristan's logic and Tristan left the fireside before completing his argument._

_It was with a heavy heart that Isolde left the shores of Britain. And as she unpacked her belongings, she came upon a package, wrapped in animal skin._

_Inside was a pendant on a simple leather cord. On the back of the pendant was a crudely etched 'T'._

Isolde continued to stare at the sea as she played with the wolf's paw pendant.


	9. Chapter 9: Turn to Piracy

A/N: This is being updated because I realized that I really, really want to know the ending

_A/N: This is being updated because I realized that I really, really want to know the ending. I honestly have no idea what it will be. Anyhoo, this chapter is brought to you by my flash inspiration, a quote by H.L. Mencken: "Every normal man must be tempted, at times, to spit on his hands, hoist the black flag, and begin slitting throats."_

_Chapter 9: Turn to Piracy_

Tristan sat dejectedly in the pub, staring into his cup of ale. The ever-constant rain spattered down just outside the door, in a half-hearted attempt at the usual downpour. He sword leaned against the table beside him and his shiny apple sat on the table, forgotten. His mind's eye had drifted to when the eyes of the sea still gazed upon him.

"Arthur, I'm leaving." Tristan said, in his typically abrupt way. Arthur knew better than to attempt to convince him to remain amongst his brother knights.

"Where will you go?" The king questioned softly as his queen came behind him to wrap her arms about her lover's neck.

"I will sail the sea. See the world" At this, Tristan turned quietly, almost to the door before the couple processed his answer. Guinevere's voice stopped him in his tracks:

"Tristan, she cannot come back. She values her people too highly."

His hands raised to press against the rough wood of the door-frame, then he continued through the fort. As he rode to the nearest port, with only money to barter passage on any ship in the harbor, his thoughts echoed through his mind.

_If I cannot have her, at least I may have the color of her eyes._

The wind blew harsh and strong, spitting salt and brine into his face as he gazed into the endless abyss of the storm-tossed waves. He held his curved sword in one hand, as if prepared to do battle against the God of the Sea. The crew huddled close to the deck, slinking across the boards to trim the sails as they avoided the waves that swept across the ship and hurtled them into the rails.

They could not help but fear the mysterious captain who had pulled into port but a month before and demanded a crew. His black eyes bore into a man as if to view his soul and his curved blade gutted those who dared attempt to mislead him. He stood tall and strong, with tousled black hair and dark marks across his cheek bones. But most frightening, beyond his blue-stained beard, was the fearless abandon in his eyes.Even in the darkest of hours, the wildest of maelstroms he stood at the prow; to do that, the old sailors whispered, you must have nothing to lose.

"Please, milord, where do ye wish us to sail and when do we next make port?" asked a brave young soul, his back straight and tall.

Tristan turned to him slowly, his overbright eyes burning in the dying light.

"We sail into every ocean and every storm."

"And . . . . port, milord?"

"Until I forget."

This very brave young man found courage to ask what all aboard had wondered.

"Forget what?"

"The sea."

Tristan turned back to the sea as the bewildered young man's footsteps faded into the bowels of the ship. He realized he should have been more firm with the man, to prevent such questioning in the future. But he could not. Not with the sea churning beneath him a deep grey and green and blue. Not with her eyes watching him, mocking him. But he would sail the seas until her eyes meant nothing to him. And he would do whatever necessary dislodge the image of her in his mind – standing at the curved prow of the Irish ship as it moved away, tearing his heart from his chest.


	10. Chapter 10: Lost

A/N: No worries, the last chapter wasn't the end

_A/N: No worries, the last chapter wasn't the end! I just didn't have a very clear picture of where the story was going. To be honest, I still don't, but at least I have some ideas now! To the people who've stuck with this story since its beginning (if there are any left!) thank you. To the new readers, I can't tell you how much I appreciate your support._

_Chapter 10: Lost_

It had been ages since he'd stepped foot on land. The horizons blurred together as days turned into months on the blue-green waves. Her eyes continued to taunt him, no matter how many miles away he ran. She was always reflecting back at him; in the night, with the stars shining in the waves, as well as the day when the sun shone brightly and a cool breeze blew.

'_Perhaps,' the man thought to himself, 'The sea was not the proper place to go."_

But Tristan had never been proper and never would be. He had thought to go to her, become a member of her court. But though the searing pain in his chest at her absence would cease in Ireland, the fearful stares of the gentile would not. Their eyes would bore into him as they always had, until he hid away as he had in England. That was not the consort she needed. She needed support, strength, and presence.

_'That was more Lancelot's area than mine.'_

And so it had been some three years that Tristan spent marauding up and down the coast of any continent he came across. And in doing so, he had seen the world. He had seen men so dark it seems they were birthed from an abyss, who lived in a land with the most scorching sun he had ever seen. He had been in waters so cold that mountains of ice rose from the depths, and sea became still as glass. He had stolen spices and fabrics from the Far East, gold from the moors of Valencia, and fought with Vikings. And yet he found no peace, no happiness, and thus only came to port to steal, and stole only what caught his attention. If only for a little while. But he was avoided England, no matter how much Arthur begged for a visit. Tristan was lost, and could never go home.

_Ireland_

Elaine swept down the corridors as the heavy doors of the throne room closed with a foreboding thud. Isolde was not herself and had not been for ages. She grew drawn and pale, a forbidding look in her once fey face. Elaine could not remember the last time her sister-friend smiled; simply stared at the sea as if it would bring her dreams to her. Elaine's dark green gown caught on the clean threshes and was pulled free as she swept down toward the dungeons.

"Hello, Roberts. What seems to be the trouble?"

"Well, milady, the _Dread_ was out just past the borders this mornin' when it came across an unknown ship that flew a black flag. The crew was apparently a bit belligerent when asked to board; the captain was a downright scoundrel. Their cargo looked to be stolen so we took them back 'ere to be questioned and persecuted as you see fit, ma'am."

Elaine had been appointed a member of Isolde's high council, which gave her the power to adjudicate matters of state. It was her duty to question members of a conflict and decide how best to settle the matter. Decisions that were deemed of great importance were taken to Isolde herself, but smaller matters were frequently settled by Elaine.

"And this is the captain, in here?"

"Aye, miss. Strange one, he is. Never seems to move, or speak, for that matter. I think he may be," Roberts leaned in, dropping his voice to convey his meaning, "_touched_."

"Well, I'll be the judge of that, won't I?'

Elaine shook out her shoulders and put a look of stern, yet gentle, concern on her face. Nodding at the guard to unlock the door, Elaine moved toward the man inside. A sliver of light fell across the floor, yet the man stayed in the shadows as she walked toward him. He did not move.

"Are you the captain of the ship captured by our men earlier today?"

Silence.

"And are you, in fact, a pirate? Do you refuse to pay for your cargo and take it from unsuspecting merchants instead?"

Still, nothing. Frustrated, she raised her voice.

"For the love of all that's holy, will you at least step into the light so I can see your face?!"

The man stood, rolling upward like a great jungle cat, and moved toward her in slow, measured movements. Sunlight slashed his face, highlighting the dark circles beneath his eyes and black marks on his cheekbones.

"_Tristan?!"_


	11. Chapter 11: Ghosts

_a/n: this is for Miss paparella, for reminding me that people are indeed, still interested_

Chapter 11: Ghosts

Tristan eyes widened, but only slightly. It had never been in his nature to shout off rooftops. Elaine moved closer to him, kicking her skirts out of the way as she opened her arms to him. He leans away from her, flinching from familiar comfort. This, she notices.

"No, that never was your style, was it?" Again, only silence.

She stands there, simply staring at him; she wants to take in the man that means the world to her cousin, whose absence drove the quiet girl-child to distraction and the sea. His clothes were worn, flashes of skin peeking through where his trews were worn to nothing. Grass stains, and other stains she did not want to consider appeared to be ground into his tunic, stiffened with sea salt and lack of washing. New creases crackled from his eyes, the dark, purplish-bruised skin underneath stretched tight. She had seen Tristan like this before; when he believed he had nothing left to live for.

She could not begin to imagine what he had seen. What depths of the earth he had traversed in his restless attempt to find peace. But now he was here and perhaps . . . . but Elaine had never understood the relationship between Isolde and Tristan. That seemed to exist without words, without borders, and without cause.

Elaine did know, however, that she could do nothing for Tristan to ease his pain, nothing to erase his years of piracy, of seeking that which was always here and never in that far-off harbour. She turned from him, and walked to the heavy door. As it was pulled open to let her through, a voice spoke behind her, low and graveling; it had not been used in quite some time.

"Lancelot misses you"

She paused at the door, turned to him and smiled. "I will see him soon again."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - -- - -- -- -- -- - - -

Isolde removed her heavy crown, releasing the tight braids that kept it from slipping down her forehead. Rubbing her forehead and scratching her scalp, she gazed into her reflective surface before standing to stoke the fire.

_A heavy door creaked open slowly, with guards nowhere to be found. A nose lifted to the air, eyes sharpened; skills long unused shook off their rust._

Isolde stood behind the carved wooden partition, running a sponge over her body, the warm water brought by the maids soothing her stiff muscles. Weapons practice was a luxury, and hours sitting in her conference rooms did nothing for her tightening arms and legs.

_Soft footfalls padded across rushes, turning down a corridor at a rush that appeared oddly, yet easily broken from the rest. Shadows cloaked him from prying eyes, hid what refused to be seen._

Isolde sat in her comfortable chair by the fire, gazing into its flames quietly. In moments like this, she could almost pretend he was here.

_A final corridor, in a maze of broken rushes. The lurcher lifts his head, eyes him up and down, but does nothing. A final door, with a blue-green ribbon tied about the handle. He presses the latch, exerts mere pressure._

The door to her chamber seems to ghost open with the wind. Isolde turns to it, surprised that no one has stopped the motion. Rising, she goes to the door and pushes it shut. She turns back to her chair, to find two new occupants. Hasopad, the lurcher, is curled in front of the fire with his back to the flames and his paws crossed under his muzzle.

A man in dark clothes, all legs and arms and sinewy muscle, sits in front of the fire on the floor next to her chair. His hair, braided in places, choppy, and longer than she'd seen, hung in his eyes; she knew what colour they would be, in one light the deepest chocolate brown, the next, the lightest grey. His head turns slowly towards her . . .

_His eyes drink her in, hungrily, like a man near a fresh spring after years of sand and desert. Her golden hair hangs straight behind her, her skin flickers and glows in the firelight, her eyes an unspeakable blue-green._

She returns to her chair and curls up in it again as she has since she came back to her homeland. But this time something is different.

_His hand rises, slowly, unconditionally, and certainly unintentionally._

She slides her white, soft palm into his rough brown hand. Calluses from weaponry long gone, new calluses of pulling ropes made.

They sit by the fire together, at last, hands entwined, for hours. Love could, and would, come later in the night, when the fire had banked and the embers merely glowed red. This is enough.

This is enough.


End file.
